


Bargain

by vitovitovito



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Demon AU, Demon John, Demon Summoning, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Power Dynamics, sort of pre-slash?? listen i just think teetering on the edge of selling your soul is KINDA HOT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitovitovito/pseuds/vitovitovito
Summary: Knee-deep in a challenging case, Sherlock asks for help and receives it. Demon AU, magic London, John is a wildly powerful demon and Sherlock is a wildly average mage. Technically case fic but the case doesn't super matter! Enjoy!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Bargain

The stains did not come off. Sherlock scrubbed his wrists for what felt like a lifetime before sagging against the kitchen wall, one arm dangling uselessly into the sink. Perhaps a potion, he thought blankly. One of the experimental blends. A poison, even. Something for dissolving bodies. Anything. 

Thursday, three AM. Lund Street night market would be in full swing, and the sky would be full of harpies. Sherlock’s oxfords bounced against the doorway as he sunk into the couch. Bruised ribs, the last echoes of the banished wasting curse, and an apparently permanent stain on his hands. Almost forty hours awake, he realized. Fine. 

“John,” he said aloud, and then slapped a hand over his own mouth. The study was still and cold, and the name seemed to hang in the air before him. He hadn’t thought -- he hadn’t planned to reach out. And yet he’d opened his mouth and he’d just -- 

“Christ,” John said. “You’re a sight. Another simple interview, eh?” 

John sat comfortably on the other side of the couch. His back was even and his hair clipped, his button-down faintly rumpled and his hands on his lap, and he looked so human. 

Sherlock bit back the urge to flinch. John looked at him sideways, gave him that small smile. 

“You arrive so quickly,” Sherlock said, as evenly as possible. “Like a dog. Do you always come when called?” 

John snorted. “Oh, hello, John. Nice to see you, John. C’mere, give us a look.” 

He stretched a hand towards Sherlock, the motion legible and slow. An invitation: a chance for Sherlock to refuse. 

Delicately, Sherlock placed his hand in John’s. He prayed that John would not take his pulse. John just nodded, bending nearer to inspect the stain. 

“You went after the Mulhall, I take it,” John said, gently flexing Sherlock’s grip, watching the stain ripple with the patterns in his skin. 

“He wasn’t the killer,” Sherlock said. “Well. Not Smitt’s killer, anyway.” 

“Right. Suppose that would’ve been too easy. Bit of pressure now.” 

A sensation like rough cloth scraped Sherlock’s skin. If he concentrated, Sherlock could just make out a whitish blur surrounding their entwined hands. Instead his gaze flickered to John’s furrowed brow, his mouth hanging slightly open. 

“Why are you doing this,” he said, and John looked up, surprised. 

“You summoned  _ me _ , mate.” 

“You owe me nothing,” Sherlock said, flexing his hand clear of John’s grasp, noticing the absence of the stain. “We have no arrangement. You’ve no reason to -- entertain this.” 

“Other side,” John said simply, gesturing, and Sherlock held out his other hand. “Thought you liked us talking.” 

“Misdirect,” Sherlock sighed. The roiling sensation of magic against his skin was clarifying, almost pleasurable. It felt like a foothold. “You wouldn’t bother trying to gain my trust: we both know what you are. At present, your assistance earns you nothing. So you’re either harming me covertly, or you know something I don’t.” 

“Big of you to admit,” John said easily. “Me knowing a thing.” 

“I said it was a possibility,” Sherlock snapped, and John smiled. “Wait. Hang on. What sort of demon are you? Your magic, what does your magic compel.” 

“Well, I’ve recently been reminded that you and I don’t have a deal,” John said. “So I’ve no reason to tell you.” 

He released Sherlock’s newly unstained hand. Immediately, Sherlock missed his touch. 

“You know I won’t make an arrangement,” Sherlock said slowly. “You have no incentive to engage with the Smitt case. There’s no reason to waste your energy on Earth, unless you eventually stand to gain.” 

John held his gaze. His gray eyes were clear. 

“Tell me, demon,” Sherlock said. “What do you see in my future.” 

John looked away. “Most regret asking, you know.” 

“I’m not most people.” 

“Yeah, I know,” John muttered, almost to himself. There was silence, for a time. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the bookshelf ahead of him. Grey’s Anatomy, 70s cookbooks, an old Encyclopedia Britannica, a register of all known sex offenders in London. He’d built a life here, he thought. He’d known people, and he’d solved puzzles, and he’d -- lived. Really lived. 

“You’re going to give yourself to me,” John said, soft in the dark. “Completely. You won’t ask for anything in return.” 

Sherlock felt himself smiling. “Now why would I do that?” 

“Because I know you,” John said. The old clench rippled along Sherlock’s spine. “And because you can’t know  _ me _ . Not until you give in.” 

“Plenty of people know me,” Sherlock said, heart in his throat. “Lestrade knows. Donovan. My -- brother.” 

John shrugged. 

“God, it’s almost insulting how textbook this is,” Sherlock snapped. Blood pounded in his ears. “No one understands me but you, etcetera. Next you’ll say I  _ complete _ you.” 

“No,” said John. “It’s your life, mate. Your choices.” 

“So what,” Sherlock said, nearing hysteria. “I’m going to die, or kill myself or something, and I’m going to give you my soul,  _ just because?” _

“Because you’ll want to,” said John. “And it’s all right. I’ll look after you.” 

Sherlock almost laughed. “What does  _ that _ mean.” 

Again, John shrugged. “Couldn’t say. I’m not selling anything. You asked what I knew, and I said. That’s all.” 

“You’re the one who said the future was mutable, and fortune-telling was pointless,” Sherlock snapped. He felt his pulse settling, for whatever reason. “And all seers are bastards.” 

“Well,” John said. “You asked.” 

“I did,” said Sherlock. 

Silence, again. 

“Stay the night?” asked Sherlock, and John’s face lit up. 


End file.
